Continual Distractions of a Scattered Mind

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Warning: Contents Under Pressure

And listen– I’m going to cuss my fucking ass off. I know some people are offended by such…crass…language. If’n you are a person predisposed to disliking the word fuck, perhaps reading another day would be better.

First– Murphy? I hope you suck a big, meaty dick and then–in the full spirit of your law— you choke on it. I hate you Murphy. Actually, I hate Sod more, since his law (general sense of being “mocked by fate”) fits better. Regardless, I hate with the same ferocity as I once hated the squirrels in my attic, or the cunt that referred to me as a library book that she had to check back in on a business teleconference.

Second– Yes, I realize in the grand old scheme of life that this isn’t a big deal at all, being that I’m not the one in physical pain. Mental pain? Yes.

Third– I…

Um, dude?

What? It’s hella rude to interrupt a rant.

Yeah, but a rant without back-story is hard to follow.

Oh. You want to know what happened? Joel pinched a nerve in his back/shoulder region. On my fucking birthday.

Oh wow, that does suck. But does it really necessitate this much…acidic bitchiness?

YES. Yes, it does. And here’s why. Because I was thisclose. So fucking close. Just two more days. From what? An exotic girl’s weekend at the beach? A new tattoo? An impromptu trip to Cancun? No, no, no—that’s for other people. People that, you know, like and need regular contact with other humans.

MY dream weekend included me, my dogs, and no one else. Alone In My Home. I’ve batted away suggestions for dinner, offers to hang out. I’ve deflected, gently saying, “Nunh-unh, no way” with the light-hardheartedness of a small girl.

Of course, it’s been more like “fuck no. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t even going to open the curtains.” as I spin around in circles until the dizziness makes me want to puke.

Before anyone decides that I’m the level of antisocial that requires medication, and most definitely a weekend off– in a padded room– let me point out that the last time I was alone in my home, overnight, was August 2007.

For a visual?

This kid:

Looked like this:

It’s not SO much that I’m antisocial; I’m just burned the fuck out. Burned. The. Fuck. Out. All that’s left on the candle is the metal disk at the bottom of the long-gone wick, and even that is disintegrating.

I had allowed myself to get excited. To make plans. And really, not even exciting plans to most folks. I was going to sew some stuff. Hang some shelves. Write. Take some artsy pictures. Read some books. Not so much different than my typical life, right?

Here, let me put it a differently. I was going to go to bed and wake up on my schedule; finish a few of the smallish projects that mock me from their various piled corners. Eat what–and when— I wanted to, without having to laugh at badly delivered jokes, while nodding sympathetically at the appropriate moments during JB’s work stories, all while simultaneously pleading/yelling at the other one to just fucking eat, dammit.

I was going to just be… me. Other Self. I’m missing Other Self today. She had enough time to get both in, and–most importantly– out, of her head. She could be selfish with her personal time and attention. She could have raging temper tantrums when life was unfair, without worrying about the example she was setting for Small People.

Me? I’m going to have to…suck it up. Instead of my weekend alone, I’m going to be trapped with an incapacitated leader of Monster Chase. And two Small People who want to play Monster Chase. So three people that will need my attention.

::SOB::

Yes, I know it is ridiculous to be crying (at moments, literally) over this. After all, I don’t have the fucking flu…like JB did for his last birthday. The person who wants to be all chill/groovy/roll-with-the-flow would use this disappointment as a teachable moment for those precious Small People.

Know what? Even the chill and groovy need a fucking weekend off, or they risk losing their shit. The explosive that are trying to be chill and groovy? We need it MORE. There. That’s my fucking teachable moment.

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Once upon a time I was an English major-- creative writing to be exact. Perhaps that's why I get so personally offended by plagiarism.
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